“But surely every soul is not so weak; all cannot be so cruelly imprisoned.”

Again she laughed, that strange laugh.

“Strong and weak are merely relative terms.  There is nothing you know of so strong that it may not yield to a stronger, and anything can be captured that is once well laid hold of.  I will sing you a song by which you may learn some of the ways in which other things beside souls are caught.”

Still continuing her busy weaving, Haguna began to sing.  Except the song she had hummed in the woods that afternoon, he had never heard her voice but in speaking, and was astonished at its richness and power; yet it was a simple chant she sang, that seemed to follow the gliding motion of her fingers.

  “Running waters swiftly flowing,
  On the banks fair lilies growing
  Watch the dancing sunbeams quiver,
  Watch their faces in the river. 
  Round their long roots, in and out,
  The supple river winds about,—­
  Wily, oily, deep designing,
  Their foundations undermining. 
  Fall the lilies in the river,
  Smoothly glides the stream forever.”

The subtle song crept into Anthrops’s brain, and seemed to spin a web over it, which, though of lightest gossamer, confined him helplessly in its meshes.  Again she sang:—­

  “From the swamp the mist is creeping;
  Fly the startled sunbeams weeping,
  Up the mountain feebly flying,
  Paling, waning, fainting, dying. 
  All their cheerful work undoing,
  Crawls the cruel mist pursuing. 
  Shrouded in a purple dimness,
  Quenched the sunlight is in shadow;
  Over hill and wood and meadow
  Broads the mist in sullen grimness.”

She had already woven a great deal of her shining hair into a curious braid, so broad and intricate as to be almost a golden web.  A strange fascination held Anthrops spell-bound; it was as if her song were weaving her web, and her fingers chanting her song, and as if both song and web were made of the wavering cloud that still shifted into endless dioramas.  Once more she sang:—­

  “Drop by drop the charmed ear tingling,
  Rills of music intermingling,
  Murmuring in their mazy winding,
  All the steeped senses blinding,
  Their intricate courses wending,
  Closer still the streams are blending. 
  Down the rapid channel rushing,
  Floods of melody are gushing;
  Flush the tender rills with gladness,
  Drown the listener in sweet madness. 
  Onward sweeps the eddying singing,
  Ever new enchantment bringing. 
  Break the bubbles on the river,
  Faints the wearied sound in darkness;
  But, as one that always hearkens,
  Floats the charmed soul forever.”

As she finished the song, she arose, and threw over the youth the web of her fatal hair.  The charmed song had so incorporated itself with the odorous air of the cavern, that every breath he drew seemed to be laden with the subtle music.  It oppressed, stifled him; he strove in vain to escape its influence; and as he felt the soft hair brush his cheek, he swooned upon the ground.